


soul unfolds

by monograph



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Character Study, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Growth, Insecurity, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Memories, Navel-Gazing, Personal Growth, Pining, Please read the Author's Note, Soft boys being soft, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, hand holding, jisung is a small seedling about to sprout, this is highkey soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:34:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24109069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monograph/pseuds/monograph
Summary: When Chan introduces his hot friend Minho to the group, Jisung is a mess. He isn’t even able to hold eye contact with Minho for more than a few seconds. What is more damning is the fact that his eyes cut to Minho every time he isn’t looking. Now Jisung has to juggle a crisis and a crush at the same time.---In which Jisung finds himself as he falls for Minho.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 412





	soul unfolds

**Author's Note:**

> This... was supposed to something else entirely. My fics always seem to get out of hand. Oh well, here is 11k+ words of soft and gross feelings and friendship.
> 
> Quote is from Khalil Gibran's 'The Prophet.'
> 
> I listened to Sunshine by Stray Kids and Dreams by The Cranberries a lot while writing this. 
> 
> Thanks to K for looking through this!
> 
> Note: there were eight mentions of Woojin in the original version of the fic, which I've edited since the allegations came to light.

Our hands empty except for our hands

\- Ocean Vuong

**───────**

Jisung’s grandmother had once told him that a person who asks for something, the person who receives, always holds out their hand. The one who gives always has their hand held above the receiver’s. You need to have something to give, but there’s smallness in asking.

Jisung had frowned.

“Ask me for a coin,” she had said. She dropped a coin into his outstretched palm that was scarcely an inch below hers. “Go get yourself something,” she had said then, eye crinkling, smile warming her face.

Jisung had gone to get an ice-cream. His hand was below the ice-cream guy’s when he handed the cone over.

At 20, he still thinks about it sometimes. He knows that it doesn’t hold true in every situation, obviously, biomechanics always don’t work like that. But, he thinks of grandma, her fingers wringing her apron as she asked grandfather for a little bit more money to treat Jisung. He remembers her holding out her hand.

───────

Chan brings two people with him one day to the barbecue joint that they frequent. He had told them to expect people, but Jisung had rather hoped the plan would fall through. No such luck.

Both the people trailing alongside Chan are taller than him. They are also painfully beautiful: cheekbones, jawlines and careless, artistic flops of hair marking them out in the dim light of the cheap joint. He notices a woman check out the shorter one.

“This is Hyunjin,” Chan says, pointing to the lanky one who beams at them. “This is Minho,” he says, nudging the shorter one with his elbow. Minho gives them a closed lip smile, his eyes crinkling. A Duchenne smile. Genuine pleasure at being here.

Changbin waves them into a seat and much to his displeasure Jisung find himself sitting opposite to Minho. It isn’t that Jisung is bad with new people. He’s awkward around them, but he knows he’ll grow out of it, that he’ll be comfortable in his skin one day. At least that’s what his mom says, but he looks at his friends who all seem settled and self-assured, and he wonders why he feels like he’s still bobbing in a sea trying to search for footing, scrabbling against rocks with hands that keep slipping.

This is disconcerting, he thinks, after a whole five minutes. His skin frizzles with an annoying heat that he isn’t able to tamp down, the tips of his ears probably resemble beacons with their sharp redness. He blames it on the beer, but he knows it is a flimsy excuse, so transparent that a flick of reason will lead to a spectacular knockdown. What is damning, he despairs, is the fact that he can’t hold eye contact with Minho for more than a few seconds.

Even more damning, is the fact that his eyes cut to Minho’s every time Minho isn’t looking.

He seeks refuge in loudness. He makes bad jokes, laughs out loud, pours his entire body into a performance of ‘I’m totally chill.’ He catches Seungmin’s bemused expression, Chan’s bewildered amusement. Changbin’s eyes are knowing.

“Well, that was painful,” Changbin informs him later, when dinner’s over and after the bill and the group has split.

“What was?” Jisung asks, wanting to burrow his head into the cold hard ground. Becoming an ostrich sounded good, except he didn’t want to leave his ass vulnerable. He decides that becoming a worm is a better option. Tactically speaking.

Changbin looks at him. His expression is soft and understanding. The precursor to Hyung-mode. “Attraction is ok; you know? It is ok to be attracted to someone,” Changbin says. Jisung notices the same sentiment being conveyed in different words. He knows that with Changbin, it is not fill empty space like in a high school essay, but to emphasize. To empathize.

Jisung twirls his phone between fingers for something to do. There is a cold pit in his stomach. Shame churns in it. He knows Changbin doesn’t mean to make him feel ashamed for his inexperience. But, Jisung is attuned to every perceived slight to his weakness. His breath stutters.

“Don’t try to hide it or force it down because honestly you’re an expressive,” Changbin continues. They’re standing below a streetlamp now. Jisung focuses on the play of shadows across Changbin’s jaw. “You’ll just explode with all the repressed attraction one day, and _that_ will be embarrassing. Pursue your attraction to him, if you want. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Jisung has noticed that the people who use the ‘what’s the worst that could happen line’ are the ones who are either able to ration the fucks they give, or have entirely run of fucks. Jisung is not like that. He liberally gives a fuck about everything. He slathers unnecessary amounts of fucks on the smallest of situations. He scrapes at the bottom of his reserves to find fucks to give. A ‘so what’ attitude has never worked for him because ‘so what’ is the not his poison of choice. It is ‘what if this happens.’

He shuffles his foot. “It was just a one-time thing, hyung” he mumbles, “I was just caught off guard.” At Changbin’s sceptical look, he hastens to add, “I mean I have not seen people who could be _models_ before you know. I didn’t know how to act because models are supposed to be all hoity-toity, you know.”

Changbin studies him, huffs and links their hands. “I’m always there for you,” he says, then cuffs him with his free hand. “And you stop applying stereotypes or I’ll hit you.”

───────

Sometimes, Jisung feels like a child playing an adult. Like he’s three kids in a trench coat that got into college, except everyone here knows the truth and no one considers him to be an adult.

He had joined a class, freshman year. The teacher had insisted on icebreakers and had paired people up. The girl he had been paired with was disinterested in the extreme and had barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes at Jisung’s questions. When it was her turn, she had asked, “Tell me the wildest thing that you’ve ever done.”

Jisung had told her about stealing strawberries from a neighbour, how he had planned for _weeks_ before setting the heist into motion. He only managed to get two strawberries before running away, only to find that the neighbours had already given a huge basket to his grandmother.

This did not impress the girl. She proceeded to needle him, asking him about boyfriends/ girlfriends, crushes, people whom he found attractive. Her pronouncement at the end of the session was, “how have you never _dated_?”

Jisung had said something sharp, he doesn’t remember. What he does remember is how he childish he had felt, how out of place. He knew romance wasn’t everything. Of course, he did. But, it was how his lack of romantic entanglements was viewed by others that bothered him more than the lack of romance itself. Childish, naïve, innocent. Unable to attract anyone.

It had gotten worse. Jisung had found that once you have a thorn on your side, it pricked you constantly. He found himself having nothing to share at parties when they played Never have I ever. Worse, he had nothing to drink to. He decided that he preferred clubbing. Always.

It was a stupid thing. Yes, the antecedent was stupid, but the precedent was the cut of humiliation, the prickle of disbelieving glances. That didn’t seem stupid to Jisung.

───────

“Jisung!”

Jisung does not expect to see Minho jogging up to him. He pauses, uncertain and wait until Minho is right in front of him.

“Hello,” Minho says, and then he bends his knees, places his hands on them and pants.

Jisung stares because Minho’s hair is ruffled by the breeze and when he straightens up, sweat is gleaming in the hollow of his throat. “Hi,” he says, tearing his eyes away and looking at Minho’s face.

Minho’s lips are pursed and his eyes are twinkling with unrestrained amusement. Jisung’s stomach flips. He fiddles with his rings for something to do, to push down the flush that threatens to creep onto his cheeks.

“I’ve been trying to contact Channie hyung, but I’m not able to reach him. Any idea where he would be?”

Jisung grabs the opportunity to divert his attention away from Minho’s smile and what it means. “Hyung would be in the studio. He gets really lost in his work sometimes, so he doesn’t bother to check his phone. Should I pass on a message to him? I’m going there right now.”

“Ah, that’s ok. I’ll come with you,” Minho says, effectively pulling the thin fabric of stability on which Jisung is standing from underneath his legs.

Minho starts walking. Jisung takes a moment to wrangle the butterflies in his stomach and to make peace with the fact that yes, this is happening. Then he decides to rise to the challenge. He’ll make sure that there is never a moment of awkwardness in the time it takes to reach the studio. He’ll make conversation; he’ll brashly bulldoze over awkward silences.

Before he can even bellow out the first question, Minho starts talking. Minho has a nice voice. He modulates it in a soothing way with lilts of laughter, burrs of amusement, accents of silliness. Jisung is mesmerised. On his end, he tries not to sound like an angry, overexcited old man, but it slips anyway because Minho teases him a lot.

“You looked like a squirrel scampering out of the library,” Minho tells him. “I understood why Chan has your name saved as ‘squirrel brat’ on his phone.”

Jisung squawks. “I can’t believe my identity has been reduced to that of a squirrel,” he says, pretending to wipe a tear out of his eye.

Minho hums. “Some squirrels are born, some achieve squirrel-ness, and some have squirrel-ness thrust upon them,” he says. “Guess which one you are?” And before Jisung can protest, he says, “I think all three applies to you.”

Jisung doesn’t know how to reconcile his odd pleasure at being teased with his negligible indignation. He chooses to smack Minho’s shoulder. It turns out to be the wrong decision because now that he’s noticed the breadth of his shoulders, he is flustered. He remains silent.

Just before they reach the studio, there’s a huge crowd of students taking a look at some tiny exhibition. Jisung nearly swallows his tongue when Minho grabs his hand.

“Don’t want you to get lost,” Minho says and he winks. He fucking winks.

Jisung is in too much turmoil to do his share of navigating the crowd, but Minho leads him through the knot of people with ease, zig-zagging and asking to be excused, his fingers gentle and firm around Jisung’s wrist.

Later, after Minho has finished speaking to Chan about a song he’s producing for him and Hyunjin, he takes his leave. He fist bumps Chan, but when he turns to Jisung, his fingers are outstretched. Jisung offers his own hand, and he does not, _does not_ , blush when Minho shakes his hand. His hand is warm and solid around Jisung’s.

“I’ll see you soon,” Minho says, tightening his grip for a moment. His thumb sweeps over the back of Jisung’s hand for a second. He winks.

That asshole.

“That was like watching a really intimate Victorian sex scene,” Chan says, after Minho leaves.

“Shut up,” Jisung mumbles, touching the pulse on his right hand. It is racing.

“Return the favour and flash your ankles at him,” Chan says cheerfully. “Let’s see if he gets more flustered than you are right now.”

Jisung buries his face in his hand and screeches.

───────

Once in eighth grade, his crush had spoken to him during recess. He had never before interacted with Jisung outside of play practice, so thirteen-year-old Jisung had immediately attached utmost importance to it. He had bumbled through the conversation with a heavy tongue and tomato red cheeks, his brain blank except for ‘shit, shit, shit.’

“Why is he talking to you,” a snide voice said behind him after Yonghyun had walked away, throwing him a wave.

Jisung cringed and turned to meet Eunhee’s furious eyes. “We’re classmates, you know.”

“So? You’re not popular or anything,” she said, mouth twisting so much that Jisung wished her face got stuck that way.

Jisung ignored the slight. “We are practicing for a play together. Not that it is any of your business.”

“Yonghyun is not going to like someone like _you_ ,” Eunhee said, making a show of checking her nails. “He likes people who are smart and…” she sneered at him, “not nerdy.”

Jisung didn’t manage to hide his shock in time and Eunhee caught it. She smirked and went for the kill. “What? You didn’t think everyone knows? Your pathetic crush is written all over your face.”

So is yours, Jisung wanted to retort, but he was still reeling with the shock of having his secret exposed like this. Eunhee snorted and walked away. By the time recess ended, more than half of his eight grade class knew about his crush. He denied it and fought back as much as he could, but there was no shaking them. The worst thing was that he couldn’t stop them from stressing on the ‘you’ every time they brought up his crush.

Sometimes, he thought that his crush on Yonghyun had died the moment Eunhee said “Yonghyun is not going to like someone like _you_.” The humiliation of that incident had knocked out the cornerstone of his confidence.

So when at seventeen he had confessed to a girl that he’d really liked and she had said, “I don’t like you like that,” Jisung had automatically stressed on the ‘you’ for her.

───────

The fluorescent light in the supermarket glints of Minho’s cheekbones and makes them look sharper, more enticing.

“This brand has an offer,” Minho says, turning to him. Jisung drops his gaze. Minho holds up two packets of cheese slices right under Jisung’s nose. “Buy two get one free.”

“That’s a lot of cheese,” Jisung observes, rearing back a little. “I don’t think we need that much.”

Minho shrugs. “We can use it some other time,” he says, dropping them into the basket that Jisung’s holding. “What’s next?” He inspects the list. “Chocolate milk!” He lopes off to milk aisle. Jisung follows him, lugging the basket. He wishes he had chosen a trolley.

Chan had told everyone about the incident at the studio and Jisung’s ears still rang with the amount of screaming and hollering that had followed. His friends had unanimously decided that Jisung had to spend time with Minho, so they had orchestrated this shopping trip.

Minho places the chocolate milk into the basket, folds the list and shoves it into his pocket. It’s no mean feat; Minho’s jeans are tight as hell. “Let’s go to the bakery section,” Minho says.

“There was dessert on that list?” Jisung asks. He doesn’t remember Chan asking if anyone wanted dessert. Jisung would’ve been the first person to let him know.

“No, but _we_ need desserts,” Minho says.

Jisung blinks. Minho shifts, eye darting towards a group of friends who are giggling as they record something on their phone. White noise finds place in the aisle once they move away.

“I feel like having something sweet,” Minho shrugs, folding his hands into the pocket of his jacket. “Will you come with me?”

“Yeah, of course!” Jisung says. He ambles beside Minho. “Now that I think about it, it was just a couple of days back when I complained about haven’t had a cheesecake for a long time.”

The corner of Minho’s mouth lifts in a smile. “I know, I was there at the studio that day, Jisungie.”

Jisung’s heart is all aflutter, his palms are sweatier than they were a moment ago. His mind blanks to just ‘!!!!’, but he forces it away. He has to be logical; Minho is just being nice. “Thanks, hyung,” he says, cursing himself when his voice wobbles a little.

“No need for thanks, you’re paying after all,” Minho says, laughing when Jisung pouts. He ends up paying, however, and blocks Jisung’s way to the cash counter with his body. Jisung lets him pay when the cashier gives them a look that would’ve made children scream.

On the way back Jisung finds his shoulders brushing against Minho’s more than is strictly required. Minho doesn’t say anything, so Jisung doesn’t put any distance between them.

A wall of noise hits Jisung the moment they step into Chan’s apartment. Everyone seems to be doing everything with nothing getting done. He shakes his head when he sees Hyunjin and Chan cheering every time Changbin slices a vegetable. In the kitchen, Seungmin and Felix – one of Hyunjin’s friends – are discussing something, their heads bent over the stove. Jisung places the bags near the fridge and races out to harass Changbin.

He bumps into Minho as he leaves the kitchen and he grabs Minho’s upper arm to steady him. He doesn’t drop his hand because he is too entranced by the way Minho’s face shifts from shock to relief.

“Thank you! I think Chan would’ve had my head if I had dropped all these eggs,” he says, holding up a shopping bag.

Jisung who still has his hand on Minho’s arm feels his biceps flex under his hand. He snatches his hand away like he’s been burned. “Wouldn’t want unnecessary decapitations,” he mumbles and flees.

“The gay is strong in this one,” Changbin comments when Jisung joins him.

Jisung flips him off.

The evening devolves into chaos after that. Jisung is buzzing with energy by the end of dinner and his cheeks hurt with how much he’s smiling. Felix and Jeongin fit into their group as smoothly as Hyunjin and Minho had and it’s the most fun that Jisung’s had in a while. 

As the evening bleeds into night, everyone splits into smaller groups. Jisung is poking at Jeongin, trying to get a rise out of him because he’s as cute as a button. The ring of his phone cuts him short. He stops talking and checks his phone. “Give me a sec,” he tells Jeongin, grimacing at the caller ID. “I have to take this,” he says.

“Saved by the bell!” Jeongin grins and escapes only to have Minho, Hyunjin and Felix descend on him. Serves him right.

Jisung goes to the kitchen and accepts the call. “So I looked through your part,” his group member says without bothering with a greeting, “and I had some thoughts.”

He has the beginnings of a heartburn and suspicion that his night is going to end in frustrated tears. “What is it?”

Half an hour later, Jisung is battling incomprehensible doom as he compares the amount of time left till the deadline and the amount of work he has to do. He _sucks_ at maths and had laboriously done his part of the assignment only to have his hard work thrown out of the window.

“Alright?” Chan asks, entering the kitchen.

“Yeah, no,” Jisung sighs, unfolding his legs and standing up from the floor. “You know that assignment with all that maths work that I told you about? They want me to redo the calculations.”

“Oh shit, that sucks.” Chan’s forehead creases. “How much time do you have?”

“Till tomorrow morning,” Jisung says.

“Ok, that really sucks,” Chan says. He snaps his fingers. “Ask Seungmin or Minho for help. They’re good at it.”

“It’s fine,” Jisung says. He doesn’t like asking for help. Never has. “I’ll just go back home and get to it.”

On his way back home, he stops at the supermarket to buy energy drinks. He thinks of the cheesecake in Chan’s fridge. He thinks of Minho’s smile when Jisung had clapped his hand like a seal as he watched the cheesecake getting packed.

He should’ve asked for help. But he can’t. _Why not_ , he thinks, stomach squirming at the thought of all the work he has to do. The answer eludes him because he refuses to grasp it.

───────

Jisung jumps at the sudden sound of the door to the study room thumping open. He jumps again when he sees Minho, who drops his bag, drags out the seat opposite Jisung and collapses into it.

“Yo,” Minho drawls, mopping his forehead with his kerchief.

Using kerchiefs instead of tissues? Hell yeah, sign him the fuck up. Jisung realises that he finds environmental consciousness hot. He also finds the way Minho’s sprawled on the chair with the buttons of his Henley open at the neck and the way his wet hair frames his face hot, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Are you ok?” he asks.

Minho puts away his handkerchief and rummages through his bag. “No, I am not. I got out of dance practice to find out that my professor has posted a quiz that needs to be submitted in,” he squints at the watch that Jisung’s wearing, “half an hour! Slap me if I talk to you,” he says and opens his laptop.

Jisung snorts and turns back to his own work. The assignment he is working on is boring, but easy enough that it doesn’t make him want to tear his hair out. The study room is silent except for the clack of keyboards and the rustle of Jisung’s jeans as he shifts.

Minho’s skin is tinted gold by the shafts of evening light that fall on him. He is glowering at his laptop, his mouth set in a stern line. Jisung’s finger twitch with a sudden urge to reach out and pat his hand that’s on the table.

He turns back to his work, but he can’t focus because his mind rings with the knowledge that he is possession of a crush and he doesn’t know what to do with it. When he thinks of confessing, his stomach swoops and drops all at the same time, leaving him breathless. Chan and Changbin would tell him to go for it, but what is there to go for? He knows by now that Minho is flirty – _you know there’s something between you both_ , his mind whispers; he crushes the voice – and he wouldn’t want to slum it with Jisung.

A dark cloud descends on him. He _knows_ he’s decent and perfectly likeable, but when had mediocre ever been enough? Minho models on the side for god’s sake and -

“Aha!”

Jisung startles, Minho’s exclamation scattering his thoughts away. He quirks a brow at him. “All done?”

“Yeah, the quiz was pretty simple,” Minho says, stretching his arms upward. “The way I ran when I saw the email,” he shakes his head. “Anyway, I’m sorry for barging in like that. I came to the library because it’s nearer than my apartment, and I didn’t think before coming inside here. I probably ruined your study session.”

“Not really,” Jisung says, tapping his pencil against his laptop. “I was working on something pretty simple.” _Plus, I don’t mind when it’s you_ , he thinks.

“I’ve never been to the study rooms before,” Minho says, looking around.

Jisung notices that his gaze lingers for a beat too long on him before darting away. Warmth creeps across his cheeks. He clears his throat, “I come here pretty often. I get distracted by everything and anything. Did you know that I befriended Seungmin back in first semester when he sat beside me in the tables outside? I think he regrets indulging me that day.”

Minho wags a finger at him. “So I did distract you!”

Fuck it. “I don’t mind it if you’re the distraction,” he says, looking at Minho straight in the eye.” A beat. He winks.

Minho’s eyebrows rise in shock. Then he throws his head back and laughs. “Where did that come from?” he asks, eyes sparkling, his chin propped on his hands.

All this attention takes the wind out of his sails. His face and neck burn with how hard he’s blushing. Still, he tries to save face. “There’s more where that came from,” he says even though he knows that there isn’t anything where that came from. He has no idea how to flirt, he’s just running his mouth.

“Is there?” Minho asks, raising a brow. Jisung wonders if the pink on his cheeks is real or an illusion.

Jisung nods, heart hammering. He wants to go back in time and shove his shoes into his mouth to keep him from speaking. He feels ridiculous now, quite like a child trying to impress with no idea about what he’s doing. What is he even thinking? Minho was probably – no he had already laughed at him and here Jisung was trying to drag it out more.

“I would like to – shit” Minho says, grabbing his buzzing phone. He answers the call. “Hello?” he says, sounding annoyed.

Jisung looks away, trying to give him privacy. He stares unseeingly at his laptop, a clammy sweat prickling at the back of his neck.

“What – how? Don’t tell me… how is it possible for that to happen?” Minho says into the phone, words rising in agitation. He is silent for a moment. “Fine. I’ll be there.” He places his phone on the table.

“Something wrong?” Jisung asks, watching Minho gather his stuff.

“Yeah.” Minho pauses and shoots Jisung an apologetic look. “I need to go, someone fucked up our costumes and everything is a mess,” he says.

“Oh fuck! I hope it gets sorted quickly,” Jisung says, worrying a hangnail with his finger. The competition Minho’s preparing for is pretty near and he knows from experience how stressful last minute fuck-ups are.

Minho nods. He opens his mouth, but then shakes his head and gets back to packing. “I’ll see you soon, Jisungie,” he says on his way out, squeezing his shoulder.

The study room is abruptly quiet the moment Minho leaves. The last rays of the sun hit Minho’s chair and highlight the dust motes suspended within them. They seem to glitter as they float. Shadows fill the space beyond his seat where the light doesn’t reach. Jisung stares at the scene in front of him, hypnotised.

A moment later, he turns back to his assignment.

───────

Sometimes, Jisung thinks about the two versions of him. Han Jisung and the myth of Han Jisung. Pretentious, yes, but looking at it this way makes it easy for him to articulate it.

The myth of Han Jisung is what people see all the time. It’s the falsified version of his true self; bits of him carefully aligned and shown to light so that it reflects a particular image. The myth of a brash, enthusiastic boy. The myth of a cool rapper. The myth of a smart guy who is able to pick up information in seconds and can coast through his classes. They’re all true, but singularly they are nothing but distortions. A false representation of Jisung.

It is more complex than that. The truth, however, remains. Jisung wears different masks depending on the people, the situation, his mood. The Japanese said that everyone has three faces: the one you show the world, the one you show to your friends, and your true face. Jung said everyone has a shadow self and a persona. The persona is how you behave in society; your shadow self is composed of all your repressed desires, ideas, motivations. Jisung knows that wearing different masks is normal. Even healthy, from the adapting to different situations quickly point of view.

The crux of the matter is he is terrified of showing anyone his true self, of exposing his shadow self. That he is scared of showing even a glimpse of authenticity because he thinks he’ll be found wanting.

He remembers an evening, a long time ago, when his grandmother was sitting with him in the living room, peeling potatoes. She was telling about a drama she had watched, and she was critiquing the storyline. She told him about how stories were crafted, told him about one of the stories that she had written in her youth. Jisung was spellbound, hanging onto every word. He had been even more easy to impress as a child than he was now.

“Is she telling you about the weird stories she used to write back in the day?” his grandfather had asked, coming into the living room.

Grandma stilled. Even at ten years of age, Jisung knew that this stillness did not bode well. “You can from mistakes as well, you know,” his grandma said, scraping at the potatoes with more care than they demanded.”

Grandpa snorted. “Damn right. Learn from her mistakes and never write weird short stories Jisungie. Absurdism or something she called it. I liked the romance stories you wrote the best,” he told grandma. “They were much more suited to you,” he waved a hand at her.

“Perhaps.”

Grandpa sat next to her and threw a hand around her shoulder. Grandma leaned into his side. But, Jisung caught the hard set of her mouth, her wilting shoulders. He still remembered how slimy the discarded potato skins had felt against his fist.

Later, much later, on another summer evening, Jisung was raving about rap and rappers to his friends. His fingers were sticky with rivulets of ice cream flowing down the cone.

“Do you want to be a rapper?” his friend had asked, raising a brow.

An innocent question.

A voice in his head whispered, _“don’t tell them the truth.”_ Don’t tell them that you wanted it with an intensity that surprised you, that you could pour everything in your heart into it. That it was a gift that kept on giving.

“Not really,” he said, “just interested is all.” He changed the topic.

───────

Jisung’s been buzzing with nervous anticipation for a good half an hour now. He still jumps and nearly falls out of his chair when the bell rings. He brushes a hand through his hair, straightens his shirt and forces himself to walk at a normal pace and not dash to the door.

“You’re completely soaked!” he exclaims when he catches sight of Minho. He shrieks when Minho flicks water at him the moment he enters the flat.

“I know, all this water makes it rather obvious,” Minho says and flicks water at him again.

“Hyung, stop it!” he whines, backing away until he’s at a safe distance. “Let me get you towels and clothes,” he says, walking into his room. He can hear Minho following him, the squelching sound of wet clothes preceding his arrival.

Jisung’s glad that he had a stock of oversized clothing because he has no desire to see his normal sized t-shirt stretched over Minho’s frame. Well, he does, but he doesn’t want to live to see his own embarrassing reaction. “Here are the clothes,” he says, pointing at the clothes that he has placed on the bed; “here’s a towel,” he adds, throwing it at Minho who catches it easily; “and the hair dryer’s already plugged in.”

“Thanks,” Minho says, and peels off his shirt as if a very bisexual, very smitten Jisung isn’t standing right there.

“I’ll make you tea,” Jisung chokes out, and darts out of the room. Here he had been worrying about Minho in smaller sized clothing without perceiving the actual danger: shirtless Minho. Shirtless Minho with his abs and shoulders and chest and, and… everything.

He groans and buries his face in his hands. He breathes in and out for a few moments before putting on the kettle. He takes out two mugs: a lopsided, chipped one for himself and one with Chan’s blown up face on the front for Minho. He scrolls through his phone as he waits for the water to boil. The slow rumble of his age old hair dryer drifting from his room, the rain beating on the window and the frizzle of boiling water settle on him like a blanket. He yawns.

“Sleepy?” Minho asks. He’s leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, his hands in the pocket of the hoodie, un-brushed hair framing his face and falling over his eyes.

“Kind of,” Jisung says, drinking in the sight of him. “It’s the weather.” He offers a hand to Minho, “Come inside, hyung.”

Minho accepts his hand, palm crosswise to his own and Jisung pulls him inside. He drops his hand and misses the warmth immediately.

Minho leans with his back against the counter. “Your apartment’s nice,” he says. “It’s cosy, lived in.”

Jisung hums, pouring water into the mugs. “Yeah! It’s home, you know. Our safe space. I guess homes just start reflecting the emotions you feel and even your personality after a point.” He adds the teabags and hands over the Chan mug to Minho. He grins when Minho’s lips quirk.

“This is an interesting trinket to have in your safe place,” Minho says, shaking his head. “Chan hyung making sure that you and Changbin don’t get into any trouble.”

“Good thing that we keep that mug in the cabinet and slam the door on his face then,” Jisung says, adding sugar to his tea.

“Nice way to treat a hyung,” Minho says, drily. He sips his tea, his eyes heavy on Jisung’s face. “Chan hyung said you have the music.”

Right. The reason why Minho’s here in the first place. Chan and Changbin had orchestrated this meeting too, starting with Changbin ‘forgetting’ his laptop with the music for Minho’s performance at home and Chan being ‘unavailable’ to email it to him.

“I’ll get it,” he says, flushing. He is about to place his mug on the counter and leave when Minho stops him.

“No, no,” he says. “Let’s finish our tea first, Jisungie. Do you want to sit?”

“Yeah – yeah ok,” Jisung squeaks. He is surprised by the fact that Minho wants to linger, but then it makes sense. It’s pouring outside. “Give me a minute, I’ll just put some stuff away.”

Minho nods and leaves the kitchen. Jisung throws his teabag away and puts the milk in the fridge. He usually doesn’t bother cleaning up the moment he’s done, but he needs a moment to himself. He wipes the counter, breathes and turns around to leave the kitchen.

Standing at the threshold of the living room, he can see Minho sitting on the couch. Minho hasn’t bothered to turn on the light and his face is half hidden by the pale grey light from the window. Jisung’s breath catches in his throat when he observes the side of Minho’s face, at the proportions and sharpness of them. He walks over to him, heart thudding in his ear.

Minho pats the space next to him. “You’re right,” he says as Jisung lowers himself down. “Rooms do take on the character their inhabitants.”

Jisung frowns in confusion. He wonders what Minho is talking about before he remembers. “So you’re saying that Changbin and I are gloomy and dark?” he jokes, even as he warms with pleasure at the fact that Minho remembered what he had said offhandedly.

“Changbin is dark though,” Minho says.

“Please. He hasn’t been dark since 2018,” Jisung dismisses.

Minho snorts and pokes his cheek with a finger. Jisung freezes. “What if I tell him that?” Minho asks, still poking with a rhythm that only he’s privy too.

“We tell him that every time he starts up with his ‘I like dark’ agenda,” Jisung says, batting at Minho’s hand when his pokes turn aggressive. “Stop, hyung,” he whines.

Minho drops his hand. Jisung grumbles about annoying hyungs and takes an indignant sip of his tea. A flash of lightening throws shadows on the wall opposite the couch. He catches a glimpse of it before it is overcome by the darkness in the room; two figures nearly blending into each other. He wonders what it would be like to be that close to Minho, but he refuses to dwell on it. There’s a crack of thunder next, so loud that it rattles his bones. Minho startles beside him, but settles just as quick. Except, this time his shoulder is closer.

“Are you prepared for the competition, hyung?” Jisung asks, hyperaware of the warmth radiating from Minho’s too close shoulder.

“Hmm-hmm. As ready as we’ll ever be. I’m just a bit worried about the choreo that we changed at the last moment, but otherwise everything is sorted, yes.”

“You changed choreo at the last moment?” Jisung asks, alarmed. “Isn’t that terrifying?”

Minho nods, leans and drops his head on Jisung’s shoulder. “It wasn’t working anymore,” he says. Jisung keeps very still. “It wasn’t really fitting in with what we wanted to show, where we wanted to be in terms of showcasing ourselves. So we scrapped it pretty last moment.”

“You didn’t catch it before?” Jisung asks. There’s a pang of recognition somewhere, but he can’t quite catch it because he catches sight of Minho’s lashes.

“Sometimes you don’t catch the things that aren’t working until you’ve evolved. As everything around us and we ourselves changed, it became easier to pick that out,” Minho tilts his head towards Jisung, “That’s why I love dance; it has shown me myself, and the environment around competitive dancing, as toxic as it is, has helped me grow.”

Minho is so close. So very close. How easy would it be to bend down and kiss him. Jisung can smell Minho, smell the faint wisps of his cologne and aftershave and the natural musk of him. Jisung head is filled with static, his heart hammering, trying its best to beat out of his chest. His legs are frozen, cement like and his hands are limp. Move your bloody neck, he snarls at himself.

“Rap is like that for me, I think,” he blurts instead, turning his head away. He breathes deeply. Disappointment churns along with relief in his chest.

“Is it?” Minho murmurs.

Jisung inspects every syllable for any trace of mockery. There is none. The heat of the tea warms his fingers. He flexes his free hand, watches the tendons stand out. _Tell him_ , a voice says.

Jisung nods, numb. He stares at the floor. “I mean, I’ve just properly started pursuing it and I don’t really write songs or anything,” he pauses, tries not to ramble, “but whatever I’ve done till now, it’s, it’s – it makes me so happy.”

“That’s what dancing does to me too.” Minho’s voice is soft, caressing. “It makes me happy. And I have always thought that you learn the most from what makes you happy.”

Jisung thinks about the book of half written lyrics that he has shoved under his mattress. The book that he has not shown anyone. He swallows. “Only if you let it. And some things don’t teach you anything worthwhile”

Minho hair brushes against Jisung’s chin when he nods. “Experience is a great teacher and all that, but it forces you to learn. When you’re doing something you like, you learn incidentally. Sometimes you have to discard things that aren’t working, sometimes you have to seek things to learn worthwhile stuff from. As long as you’re growing, that’s what matters right?”

Jisung doesn’t know. He remains silent. Minho doesn’t comment on his silence. Instead he winds his arm around Jisung’s and entwines their hands. Jisung lets himself feel the warmth of Minho’s hand and breathes.

Outside, it continues to rain. Jisung thinks his heart would out the noise of the thunder if given a chance. In spite of the storm in his head, a part of him feels grounded, like he’s anchored and at port while a storm rages on.

He glances at Minho and find him looking back already.

───────

“Do you ever think about how some small incidents impact you so much,” he asks Changbin.

Changbin doesn’t reply right away. Jisung shuffles in his seat and pulls his hoodie tighter around himself. He stares at the computer screen.

“Are they really small if they impact you so much?” Changbin says in his hyung voice. He leans back and looks at Jisung. “I mean, to others it might seem small, but it impacted you, didn’t it? It has a lot of value,” he says, folding his hand behind his head. “Things that impact us are pretty relative.”

Jisung doesn’t answer. It’s around 1 A.M. in the morning and they’re holed up in the studio waiting for Chan to get coffee. He picks at his nails as he tries to get words past his throat. “What if you don’t want them to impact you anymore?” he asks, lifting his head to look at Changbin.

Changbin studies him. “I think you have to… reduce their value,” he says, slowly. “You have to change them, I guess. Diminish their value by seeking out events and experiences that prove them wrong,” he shrugs. “It really depends on you how much you want to let things impact you, you know.”

“Really?”

Changbin leans forward and pats Jisung’s knee. “It’s unlearning and all that. Throw out the old shit that brings no joy,” he beings to rap, “be the master of your fate and the captain of your soul; strive, seek and do not yield and-”

“Yes fine! I get it,” Jisung says, pushing Changbin’s hands away when he tries to ruffle his hair. He lets his frown drop. “But is it really possible, hyung?”

“It depends on you,” Changbin says. “It really depends on what you want.” Repetition to emphasize. To empathize. Changbin tries to ruffle his hair again. 

Jisung lets him.

───────

**Minho to Jisung**

(image attached)

(image attached)

(image attached)

Day 1. This college is next level! Look at the rooms they gave us!

**Jisung to Minho**

Woah hyungie, you’re living the rich life!

How’s everyone holding up?

**Minho to Jisung**

Everyone’s pretty nervous, but we’re going to do a final run through soon

Wish me luck, Jisungie!

**Jisung to Minho**

All the best! Break a leg!!

**Minho to Jisung**

Thank you! I’ll see you soon :)

**Jisung to Minho**

I miss you

(Jisung doesn’t press send.)

───────

Jisung huddles against the pillar that’s right next to his TA’s office. Seungmin is standing beside him, sipping a coffee. Jisung wishes he could have a coffee, but his stomach is already churning with stress. Throwing up is not an option, he tells himself sternly.

“I will throw up,” he tells Seungmin. His stomach heaves in assent.

Seungmin raises a brow, takes a judgemental sip. When he speaks, his voice is gentler than what his expression conveys. “I know it’s scary, but getting help now will save you a lot of tears later.”

“Maybe I just need to try harder. I never really pay attention when there’s math,” Jisung suggests. “Maybe I should see how I perform in the next test and then come here.”

“Jisung,” Seungmin says, stepping closer, “is momentary relief worth getting low grades and having to make up late into the semester?” He pauses. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, but I think this will really help you.”

Jisung avoids Seungmin’s astute gaze. He watches a lady walk through the corridor, her boots thumping, papers clutched in her hand. She marches right into the TA’s office. “She’s from my class,” he says, rubbing his neck.

“I see,” Seungmin says.

Jisung knows that Seungmin won’t give in. People who don’t know him are always shocked when they realise that behind Seungmin’s puppy like façade is determination wrought in steel. Unfortunately, he knows better, so he deflates.

“I’m scared,” he mumbles. “I feel dumb asking for help. I’ve never done this before.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Yeah - but,” Jisung chews his lips. His ears are hot. “I just - I feel…so small asking for help,” he hesitates. He wishes his words would scatter away in the air before reaching Seungmin. Wishes that words didn’t have substance, that they were wisps. This isn’t that world. “The bad sort of small.”

Seungmin is silent for a moment. “Han Jisung,” he says finally, “the entire human race survived because we helped each other out. Asking for help is literally an evolutionary mechanism. There’s no smallness in asking for help.”

Jisung gives him a disbelieving look. “Seungmin, that was way too dramatic for you. Are you ok?”

Seungmin makes a face and sticks out his tongue. “I know, I only said that to get the point across. God, the things I have to do in the name of friendship,” he grins. “Listen Jisungie, what’s the worst that could happen if you asked-”

Jisung shakes his head. “Please don’t hit with a ‘what’s the worst blah blah.’ It never works for me. What works for me is imagining everything that could go wrong.”

Seungmin sighs, pushes his glasses up. The girl exists the office and stomps away, face set in such a fierce scowl that it is not difficult to imagine smoke pouring out of her ears. Jisung gulps.

“That’s called a mental filter,” Seungmin says, “I do that too and it sucks because we spend so much time picking out the negatives of a situation that we forget about the positives.” He studies Jisung who shuffles his feet, abashed. “It is not helpful, so kick its ass and do what you _know_ you have to do. Do what is better for you in the long-term.”

Jisung thinks, _sometimes you have to discard things that aren’t working_.

Jisung thinks, _it really depends on you how much you want to let things impact you_.

Jisung thinks about how everything that is good for you is never easy. He thinks about how difficult it is to move forward, to grow, to dismantle all the conditioning that you’ve been subjected to for so long. 

But, he knows what he has to do. He has to take a step, then another. “I’ll go inside,” he mutters, beads of sweat starting to down his chest. “Give me a moment.” He breathes in, pulls a mask from the depths of his mind. It is his ‘fake it until you make it’ mask. It’ll work for now.

Seungmin is waiting for him when he returns. Jisung’s t-shirt is damp and there’s a tutoring schedule tucked in his bag. “I think I’ll be able to make maths my bitch by the end of the semester,” he says. Then he smiles, “Thanks, Seungminnie.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Seungmin says, smacking his shoulder. “You’re buying me dinner.”

───────

“Jisungie,” his grandma cooed, “you were so brave.”

Jisung sniffled, hugging his knees. “’m not.”

“You are,” grandpa said. “You did what is right even though you were scared. That’s what bravery is.”

“He said he knew I was a brat that he will never give us strawberries again,” Jisung wailed. “Because of me you’ll never get strawberries again!”

Grandma snorted. She carded her fingers through his hair, soft and comforting. “Sungie, there’s a supermarket here where we can get strawberries, you know. We can get more strawberries that what our neighbour gave us.”

“But, I was bad!”

“Stealing strawberries from our neighbour was wrong, no doubt about it,” grandpa gave his head a light cuff, “and you’ll be punished, but you realised that it was wrong, set it right and learned from it. That’s pretty rad.”

“Don’t say rad,” Jisung mumbled.

Grandma laughed and pulled him into a hug. “You will always be brave, I know it. I have seen that drive in you.”

“That’s right, you do,” Grandpa said, kissing his hair.

───────

“We’ll be going to the auditorium now,” Minho says on the day of the fest. “You won’t believe the number of people here, Jisungie. This fest is huge!”

Jisung smiles at the ceiling. Minho’s breathless and it translates to static across the phone line. It is endearing. “And their jaws are going to drop when they see you all on stage. I have a good feeling about this, hyung.”

Minho’s laugh is a bit maniacal. “Whatever happens I’m just glad that we came this far. Oh my god,” his voice drops, “I saw one of the people from a big entertainment company.”

“Go network, hyung and give your team a pep talk or something,” Jisung says. “I’ll be watching the livestream and I’ll be screaming my head off so loud that you’ll probably be able to hear me.”

“I’ll be waiting for it. Ok then, I’ll call my eomma now,” Minho says.

“Yeah, hyung.” Jisung chews his lips. “I’ll see you soon,” he says, words clumsy on his tongue.

Minho’s silent. Background noise filters through, a cacophony of a hundred different sounds. “Yes,” Minho says finally. The warmth in that one word of settles like a small sun in Jisung’s chest.

If he smiles now, Jisung thinks, he’ll be able to brighten the room. He laughs at the thought and he senses a peculiar lightness within him. He decides that he likes it.

───────

“It’s them! It’s them! They’re next! Guys!” Changbin yells, jumping with every shouted phrase.

“Be louder, Binnie, the folks three floors above us need to hear you,” Chan grumbles, shoving Changbin away from him.

Changbin bounces back from the armrest and drapes himself over Chan. “Jisung’s not here yet, where is he?” he screams into his ear.

Jisung watches his two chaotic hyungs on the couch, shakes his head and sits down in front of the couch. “He is here. He was in the bathroom.”

“Who takes so long in the bathroom?” Changbin asks.

“I was gone for literally two minutes,” he grumbles and swats his knee. Changbin swats at his head, but Jisung ducks in time.

“Shut up all of you,” Jeongin says, “They’re entering the stage.”

Entering the stage is too mild a term to describe the way Minho, Hyunjin, Felix and their team-members enter. They burst into the stage in a flurry of acrobatic movements and proceed to set the stage on fire. Literally. They have pyro techniques and everything set up.

The next five minutes pass in a blur. It is surreal to hear the music that Jisung has helped with blare from the TV, beats echoing in the room where he’s sitting as his friends bring it to life with their bodies somewhere far away. Jisung sneaks a glance at Changbin when he gasps the moment Felix flashes his abs. He smirks and shares a look with Chan.

Not that Jisung is faring any better. Minho’s in his element, lean and hungry, eyes sharp, mouth lifted in a smirk. He looks like he has already seized every opportunity that this fest offers, like he knows he has already won so he might as well ensnare everyone who is watching him in a sensuous trap that he has devised. 

It is ridiculously hot. Jisung wants some time to himself.

“Well, Changbin hyung,” Seungmin says after the performance is over and they have screamed themselves hoarse. “That was a very interesting noise that you made when Felix lifted his shirt.”

“Shut up,” Changbin complains. “I was just surprised, ok? He looks so innocent; I didn’t expect him to do _that_.”

“Really? Were you surprised or delighted because let me tell you, it definitely sounded like a pleasurable sound,” Chan says, flicking away the cushion that Changbin throws at him.

“And on’t think I haven’t noticed that your English has improved a lot.”

“Or the way you’ve started quoting bits of English poetry and literature,” Jisung says, laughing at the outraged look on Changbin’s face. “Who is the Lit student amongst us?” he pretends to think, scratching his chin, “oh yes! It’s Felix.”

Changbin glares at them for a moment then his face crumples to one of pure misery. “He read me an English poem once in his deep ass voice,” he howls, “how am I supposed to deal with this torture.” He smothers himself with the cushion that Chan threw at him.

There’s a clap of gleeful laughter before chaos descends upon them. Changbin is caught in a maelstrom of teasing. They interrogate him about every single aspect of his crush and torment him for any detail that he divulges. Jisung is having the time of his life till the moment Changbin decides that he has had enough.

“Enough about me, you assholes! Ask Jisung about his crush on Minho.”

Jisung curses his friends’ short attention spans as they all turn to him. His cheeks burn as they all consider him.

“But, Changbin hyung,” Jeongin says, “We already knew that. It’s old news.”

Jisung chokes. How is it old news for them when he is still unable to comprehend the sensations and the thoughts that are so flustering and delightful all at once? He imagines himself groping in the dark, trying to assemble the pieces of a puzzle without a reference to get a coherent picture only to find the reference picture in his friend’ possession.

“Do you like him, Jisungie?” Chan asks, gently. He shushes Changbin who makes a sound of disbelief.

There’s an expectant silence. Jisung thinks about a peculiar lightness. A brush of fingers on the back of his palm. Anchored and at port. Warmth of a hand that is entwined with his own.

Jisung fiddles with a cushion. “I guess it’s an old story,” he says and shrugs but his shoulders refuse to come down.

A beat. The maelstrom turns on him. He regrets ever teasing Changbin because his friends are pests.

“You like Minho and Changbin likes Felix,” Chan says after everyone has run out of fuel, “There’s a possibility of two couples in our group and all of them are chaotic,” he shakes his head. “I’m scared.”

“Actually,” Seungmin says, “I have something to confess.”

───────

His friends return triumphant.

They get the first place and Jisung is so proud when he hears this that he is fit to burst. The men of the hour are exhausted, however, and they take leave to hibernate until the celebratory dinner on Saturday.

Still, Minho finds him in the study room. “Assignments and tests wait for no man,” he says from the threshold of the room when Jisung shoots him a confused look.

“Shit,” Jisung says with a sympathetic twist of his mouth. “It can’t wait?”

“Sounds like you don’t want me here, Jisung-ah,” Minho teases, entering and closing the door behind him.

Jisung pouts. “That’s not what I meant,” he protests. He huffs when he sees Minho hiding a smile. “Just shut up and sit down.”

“You’re such a brat, Jisungie,” Minho sings, pulling out the chair beside Jisung and dropping down on it.

Jisung is calm. His heart is steady like a metronome. A metronome that is going at hundred beats per minute. At least it is consistent. Jisung can claim that his heart didn’t skip a beat. Beside him, Minho unpacks his bag. He has a content, placid look on his face which is quite like a cat that has gotten the cream. And he is so startlingly handsome that Jisung can’t look for more than a few moments.

“What’re you working on?” Jisung asks, studying the text on his laptop intently. It makes no sense. Out of the corner of his eye, he observes Minho take a thick book out of his bag. The muscles on his forearm stand out, so enticing that his brain is unable to stop his hand from reaching out and touching.

Minho arches a brow. “Well hello there,” he says with a pointed look at Jisung’s hand on his arm.

Jisung retracts his hand. “I thought there was something there,” he mumbles, suddenly fascinated by his nails. He inspects them with more care than is necessary.

“Is it gone then?”

He can hear the smirk in Minho’s voice. He closes his eyes. “Yes, I think so.”

“Huh,” Minho says, voice sweet and low but Jisung catches the dangerous, playful lilt to it. It makes a shiver of excitement race down his spine. “Who would’ve thought that you have a thing for forearms?”

“I don’t have a thing for forearms,” Jisung lies, jabbing at the down key on his laptop. The article scrolls at a dizzying pace.

“I do have nice forearms, don’t I,” Minho flexes his arm and Jisung reaches out to blindly smack his arm. Minho catches his hand and doesn’t let go.

“What the!” Seems like it is written in his fate that he will die sporting a shade of red that mankind has never seen before. “What’re you doing?” he squeaks when Minho turns his hand so that his palm is facing upwards.

Minho brushes his thumb through the callouses on the tips of his finger. Jisung bites his lips to stop an ungodly noise from escaping him. “I read somewhere that no matter how much you disguise yourself, no matter what mask you wear, your hands always speak the truth,” Minho says, raising his head, catching Jisung’s eye.

“Really?” Jisung whispers. There’s a sudden change in the atmosphere. A change that demands a respectful hush; that warns that it will shatter with an ill spoken word.

Minho nods. “You play the guitar,” he says. His voice is quiet too. Clouds shift outside and the rays of light in the room lengthen, catch the back of Jisung’s hair before dappling Minho’s face in streaks of gold. Behind Minho there’s another window, for Jisung has managed to get one of the better study room’s today. Jisung cannot see beyond the flare that it casts on Minho’s back.

_Why look back?_

“Yeah I do,” Jisung says, “What else do my hands say?” he asks, softly.

Minho traces the lines on his palm. “That you will live long,” he says, tracing the life line, “that you will love a lot,” a finger runs over the heart line. He pauses, bites his lip. “I don’t know what the third line means,” he says with a sheepish smile, poking at the last line.

Jisung laughs, the tension in the room seeping out a little. “You’re so full of shit, hyung.”

So much light. So much lightness.

Minho smiles. A Duchenne smile. Genuine pleasure. Jisung’s heart is beating in his ear. Minho’s hands are cold around his. He extricates his hand and takes Minho’s, turns them over, examines them. “Hands always tell the truth, do they?”

Minho hums in assent. “What do my hands tell you?” he asks.

“That you hit the gym a lot,” Jisung runs his thumb across the bumps of callouses below each finger. He twines his fingers with Minho’s. “That there’s strength and safety in you,” he says, staring at their joined hands. “And that you have a thing for holding hands.”

“Excellent deduction, my dear Jisungie,” Minho laughs. He looks at Jisung with an uncertain frown. “Will you have dinner with hyung tonight?” he asks, voice dipping.

Jisung’s tongue is heavy, but his words are clear. “Yes, of course, hyung.”

───────

“I have no idea what to do,” he complains to Changbin. “What if I’m wrong and Minho just thinks of me a dongsaeng who needs lot of attention because I am dumb and terrible.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t think anything any of the things that you just said.” Changbin stuffs ramyeon into his mouth, squints at the computer. “I am not sure about this line,” he says. “The third one.”

Jisung’s heart drops. “Is it bad?” he asks, shuffling closer to Changbin. He scans the verse, chewing his lips. Every word is stab of worry.

“I didn’t say bad,” Changbin huffs, “What I meant is it that it can be improved.”

“Oh,” Jisung says, unsure. He fiddles with his phone.

Chan wipes his mouth with a napkin. “It’s great work, Jisung ah,” he says. “A bit rough around the edges, but you’ll get the hang of it soon.”

“Yeah.” Changbin scrolls down the screen. “I know it is terrifying to share your work, but don’t sweat it, you can’t be magically good at everything. Hell, even I’m still learning.”

“We can shape it up a bit and then we can definitely produce it,” Chan pokes his bottom lip with his chopsticks. “It’ll be a good song, I think.”

Jisung is still unsure, but he nods. He thinks he is doing quite well considering that he had sent the lyrics to Chan and Changbin and had then wrapped himself in his blanket and refused to leave for three hours.

Chan calls for a break after sometime. Jisung sighs in relief, but Changbin brings up Minho again. “Didn’t you guys go on a date the other day?”

Jisung’s mood darkens. “I don’t know! We talked for hours and then we went home.”

“I think he is not telling us about all the soft, gross flirting that happened,” Chan says.

Jisung pouts and folds his arms. “I don’t know anything! Except for a lot of small details about Minho hyung. We literally just played a super long version of twenty questions. What if my crush is super obvious and Minho is just being kind and ignoring it instead of making fun of me?”

Changbin holds up a hand. “First of all, your crush is super obvious to everyone around you. Second of all, that ‘super long version of twenty questions’ is a concept in the dating world called ‘getting to know each other’. Thirdly and luckily for you, Minho’s heart boner for you is super obvious to everyone except you. And that’s because you’re dumb.”

“It wasn’t a date!” Jisung says, ignoring everything else that Changbin said because his poor, quaking heart can’t deal with false hope.

Chan rolls his eyes, buries his head in his hands. “Just talk to him! Tell him that I like you a lot and I would like it if we dated!” He looks at the ceiling and mutters a prayer.

“So dramatic,” Jisung sniffs then drops his head and rubs his neck with the back of his hand. “I don’t - I don’t have… experience with these things, hyung.”

Changbin sighs. “Jisungie, listen to me. Minho doesn’t give a shit about your experience. It doesn’t matter.”

“But I don’t _know_ what to do because I’ve never… what if I embarrass myself or do something dumb?”

“What you have to do is to talk to him,” Chan says. “And Changbin is right, your inexperience doesn’t matter and if you don’t know something then Minho won’t make fun of you for it.”

“I don’t know anything,” Jisung sighs. It is surprisingly easy to whine about your inexperience in sympathetic company. Easier than confessing to it while drunk at a party. “And he’s way out of my league,” he grumbles. “That’s two minuses.”

“Leagues are a social construct,” Changbin throws a balled up napkin at Jisung. “Minho is not better than you and you are not better than him.”

“Yeah but-”

“That’s it. You are just scrambling for things to whine about” Chan says. “If you don’t shut up, we’ll go through your other songs today itself,” he threatens. “Do you want that to happen?”

“No!” Jisung sits up straight. “You said we’ll do it one day at a time,” he says, wide eyed, his stomach somewhere near his foot.

“Then shut up,” Changbin says without a trace of sympathy. “And talk to him or I’ll kick you out of the apartment.

───────

The celebratory dinner is held at the barbecue joint that they frequent. Chan has asked for a separate room since it’s nine of them now, and as Jisung treks to the private room he can’t help but think about the last time he had come here.

He saves the seat opposite him for Minho. His friends arrive one by one, their faces warming him to his core. Minho is one of the last to arrive and his smile when he realises that Jisung has saved a seat for him renders him mute for a whole five minutes.

Once everyone has arrived, the celebration starts. They order too much food and too much alcohol. They toast Minho, Hyunjin and Felix three times. They then toast each and every person they know of because Hyunjin insists that everyone deserves praise.

Jisung doesn’t drink much. Partly because he is too involved with the conversation and he kind of forgets. Mostly because he has plans to do something and he needs his wits about him for that.

“I have a toast for everyone,” Chan slurs, an incomprehensible amount of time later. “It’s for all of us!” he shouts, standing up

“Channie hyung, Channie hyung, Channie hyung,” Felix chants, eyes bright.

Chan bows and then wobbles. “I’m glad that we all found each other,” he says, a suspicious film over his eyes, “I think we were all meant to be and you guys make me so happy.” He pauses. “That’s it,” he says and throws back his drink.

They heckle him for his sappiness, but no one questions the truth of his statements. Sometimes, you can feel your brain taking snapshots of moments and storing them away for cold days. Sometimes you just know that you’ll never forget a something because of the way it made you feel. Jisung is sure that this is that moment for him. There’s a rightness, a certainty that he belongs right here, right now. That there is nowhere else he is supposed to be.

Later, after they settle the bill and stroll out the door, Minho approaches him.

“My roommate just informed me that he is going home with your roommate,” Minho says, picking at his collar, “So I’m assuming that you’ll need a place to stay. Why don’t you come with me?”

Jisung looks over at Felix and Changbin, both of them walking with their hands entwined. He looks at Minho, who is wringing his hands, a sign of nervousness that Jisung identifies within himself. “Yeah, thanks, hyung,” he says.

It is strange how you don’t have to scramble for some things. How things just work out as if the universe itself is herding you onwards. He walks in silence, shoulders brushing against Minho’s. He breathes with every step he takes, tries to build his resolve.

Minho takes his hand a few moments later. “I have a thing for holding hands,” he says, lips quirking in a smile.

Anchored and at port. Even when there’s a storm brewing within him.

Minho holds the door open for him. Jisung steps over the threshold, Minho following at his heels. He takes off his shoes, goes into the living room. The air is heavy. Expectant. There’s so much to say.

 _Tell him_ , a voice says.

“Hyung,” he says, looking at Minho and finds Minho already looking at him. “Hyung,” he says again. He can’t feel his feet. A droplet of sweat rolls down his chest. “I like you,” he whispers. “I like you so much.” Each word seems to boom in the silence of the apartment.

Minho’s mouth drops open. A moment later, his eyes light up with realization. Then he smiles and he smiles so hard that he brightens the room.

He launches himself at Jisung, arms grasped tight around him. “I like you, Jisungie,” he whispers into his ear. “I’ve liked you since the day I saw you.” He pulls back, cups Jisung’s face. His hands are cold against the heat of Jisung’s cheeks.

What does it feel like to have your feelings reciprocated? Jisung had wondered once. Now he knows that it feels like this: light but anchored and at port.

“P-please,” Jisung stammers, his eyes flickering to Minho’s lips. “Hyung-”

Minho closes the distance between them and presses his lips to Jisung’s. Jisung gasps, but melts, his lips fervent as he follows Minho’s lead.

His mind is silent.

───────

“Your home reflects you,” Jisung says. He is lying beside Minho on his bed, his hands entwined with Minho’s. His lips are sore and he runs his tongue over them. A thrill shoots down his spine.

“What do you think?” Minho asks. He sounds smug.

“It’s just like you. Safe and warm,” Jisung grins into the ceiling. “looks like a million bucks.”

Minho laughs. “So, you do know how to charm a man,” he says. “I never thought I’d see it in action.”

“Hey!” Jisung says. He wants to smack Minho, but that would mean extricating his hand and he is in no mood for that. So he kicks Minho instead. “I charmed you the moment you saw me, didn’t I?”

Minho rolls to his side. Jisung follows, his eyes falling on Minho’s kiss bruised lips. His heart flutters.

“I thought you were cute the moment I saw you,” Minho murmurs. He chews on his lip and it is so enticing that Jisung reaches out with his free hand and tugs at his bottom lip. Minho releases his lip and Jisung runs a hand over the teeth marks. “But,” his breath ghosts over Jisung’s finger, “I was trying to talk about my cats and everyone was talking over me,” he says, “and you told them to shut up and listen to me because I had three cats and that’s the kind of content that we need.” Minho’s eyes crinkle.

“Oh,” Jisung breathes. He only vaguely remembers saying something like that. He drops his finger.

“I felt seen,” Minho continues, “and that’s when I first felt something.” His eyes are intent. “I always feel seen when I’m with you,” he says.

I’ll see you soon, Minho had always said.

“Me too,” Jisung says. They are whispering now. He traces the planes of Minho’s face with his thumb. “You make me feel light, but anchored at the same time.”

Jisung’s thumb find the creases beside Minho’s eyes. “Me too,” Minho says.

───────

Say not, “I have found the truth,” but rather, “I have found a truth.”

…. And the soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.

-Khalil Gibran

───────

**Coda**

Growth isn’t linear and it isn’t all encompassing.

Jisung is not able to maintain momentum every day, nor does he become the paragon of unlearning and self-growth overnight. What happens is that he realises the need for change and plants it deep within him. There is still a lot of work to be done and effort to be put in. He takes one step at a time.

Minho’s hand finds his under the blanket. Jisung smiles and laces his fingers with his and squeezes. The T.V. is playing a third rate movie, it’s harsh blue light flickering across Minho’s face. Jisung leans towards him and kisses his temple.

He takes one step at a time and if he falters, he knows there are people to steady him. He knows that Minho will catch him. All he needs to do is ask.

And with every passing day, it's getting a little easier to ask.

**Finish.**

**Author's Note:**

> The word 'hand' appears in this fic a whopping 74 times. I really did go overboard with the hand imagery/symbolism, smh. Changbin's impromptu rap is a reference to Marie Kondo, the poems Invictus by William Ernest Henley and Ulysees by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. There's a Bojack Horseman reference in there, too. There's also psychology references, but I am by no means an expert. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading <3\. I would love to hear your thoughts and comments! Come say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/trip_the_zipp) or  
> [curious cat](https://curiouscat.qa/trip_the_zipp)


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